Victorians love to play parlor games, and when one loses a game, one pays some sort of forfeit. These "hilarious" forfeits are the driving force behind the games, as is explained in the forward of the "Ninety and Five Forfeits" from the book Evening Amusements, which was given as a Christmas gift from Mrs. J.P. Haller in 1889.
The forward explains:
The most enjoyable pleasure of an evening's entertainment, or nearly so, is "Crying the Forfeits," as it usually concludes the holiday evening's gambols. The previous portion of the evening, as respects the games, being generally looked upon as a means for the collection of this description of mirth and glee, or bearing about the same relation to the forfeits that a preliminary drama does to a pantomime.
Here are some of my favorites from the list:
15. To act the part of a dumb servant. The descriptions says, "...the gentleman then asks her...questions...How do you wash?...All these questions must be answered by the lady by dumb motions, which of course cause great laughter."
19. To lay your whole length on the floor, and after calling all the company round you, to say quite loud, "Here I lay, the length of a looby, the breadth of a booby, and three parts of a loggerhead."
30. To perform the deaf man. "The person on whom this temporary infirmity is imposed must stand out in the middle of the room, and to all that is said must answer, three times following, 'I am deaf; I can't hear.' The fourth time, however, the answer must be, 'I can hear.'"
33. Hobson's choice. "The debtor is blindfolded and seated on a chair. The operating holding a cork burnt at one end, asks him which end he will have rubbed to his face...he must put his finger on the end he selects, and trust to his luck as to whether his face is blackened or not. This is a gentleman's forfeit only."
38. The perform the parrot.
39. To act the mute.
40. To enact the Grecian statue.
41. To act the death of the King of Morocco.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Value
I volunteered with a Hospice program shortly after graduating from college. I was connected with a family immediately after completing the training. My role was to help the oldest boy with his homework. He was nine. His younger brother was seven. Their little sister, the youngest in the family, was terminally ill.
I don't remember the name of the boy I tutored for over a year. I don't remember the parents' names, or the name of the younger boy either. I do remember the name of the little girl: Erin. When Erin was born, she was given only a few weeks to live. By the time I met her, she was almost four years old. Still the size of an infant, she could not see or hear or respond to most stimuli. She could not smile or stand on her own or roll over, and breathed only with the aid of equipment.
Erin's mother had gained over 100 pounds and developed diabetes as a result of the stress and of the sedentary lifestyle that caring for a terminally ill infant necessitates. With the type of equipment Erin needed, it was difficult to bring her places, and hiring a babysitter was out of the question. A Hospice nurse would come for several hours each day, and volunteers like me would arrive periodically to give the family a respite, too.
Shortly after Christmas, the older boy was showing me the family Christmas presents. "See," he said, showing me his new remote controlled car, "You can make it go around corners." As I praised his driving skills, I noticed a row of Barbies on one shelf, all in their original boxes.
"Whose are those?" I asked.
"Oh, those are Erin's. We give her presents every Christmas and birthday. Usually Barbies."
There is the family, carefully picking out Erin's Christmas Barbie. The trip to the toy store, the judicious examination of each sparkly dress before making the decision. The excitement on their faces as they slowly unwrap the package for Erin, holding it up to her half-closed eyes. "See? She's a ballerina. Like in Swan Lake! She's wearing little toe shoes."
One cold evening I arrived for my weekly visit, only to find that the mother had taken all three children out to have their pictures taken at Sears. Only the father was home. A tough, blue-collar guy, he hadn't said much the few times I had seen him. I knew that he was involved in the boys' sports, that he had worked at Safeway for years, and that he was good with his hands, having built a TV room addition onto the back of the house. We both apologized to one another for the miscommunication about the appointment. Then he invited me to have a seat in the shag-carpeted living room. Glass and china gleamed in the light from the Christmas tree that sat in the corner.
The sand-colored couch and the loveseat were set up in an L shape. We each sat, he on the smaller sofa, facing the sparkling tree. I could hear the TV in the background. "She wasn't always heavy, you know," he said suddenly. He walked across the room, picking up something from the shelf and handing it to me. He tapped a thin, blonde woman in the framed photo I was holding. The woman wore jeans and a white T-shirt. Her curly hair was pulled back into a ponytail, with puffy bangs brushing her forehead. She looked perky and fun. Someone who liked steamed crabs and beer, maybe, or going dancing with her girlfriends.
"It's been hard on us, her most of all. It's made her sad. Depressed, you know?" I murmured something and nodded, looking across the dim room. "She got real heavy," he continued. He sighed. "But you know, I still love her, as much as ever. She's still beautiful to me. It just makes me sad sometimes."
"Of course, of course," I said, uncertain of the polite response. My eyes roamed across the shelves to the other photos: a pretty blonde in a wedding dress, kissing her new husband's bristly moustache; two toddler boys holding Easter baskets; the family smiling in a formal portrait, the boys missing teeth, the mother holding a tiny, blanket-wrapped bundle in her arms.
"We heard about this home, once, a really great place, for kids like Erin. We decided it might be good for her. For us. We wouldn't worry so much." He looked down at his hands. "She has a real personality, you know. A strong will. We can tell when she's happy and when she's cranky. We know what she likes and doesn't like."
I laid the picture of the young blonde woman on the sofa beside me. My hands rested on my thighs.
Looking up, his eyes sought mine. "It's just that, when she was away, I couldn't stand it. I missed her. She's a part of our family. When she's not around I miss her."
I don't remember the name of the boy I tutored for over a year. I don't remember the parents' names, or the name of the younger boy either. I do remember the name of the little girl: Erin. When Erin was born, she was given only a few weeks to live. By the time I met her, she was almost four years old. Still the size of an infant, she could not see or hear or respond to most stimuli. She could not smile or stand on her own or roll over, and breathed only with the aid of equipment.
Erin's mother had gained over 100 pounds and developed diabetes as a result of the stress and of the sedentary lifestyle that caring for a terminally ill infant necessitates. With the type of equipment Erin needed, it was difficult to bring her places, and hiring a babysitter was out of the question. A Hospice nurse would come for several hours each day, and volunteers like me would arrive periodically to give the family a respite, too.
Shortly after Christmas, the older boy was showing me the family Christmas presents. "See," he said, showing me his new remote controlled car, "You can make it go around corners." As I praised his driving skills, I noticed a row of Barbies on one shelf, all in their original boxes.
"Whose are those?" I asked.
"Oh, those are Erin's. We give her presents every Christmas and birthday. Usually Barbies."
There is the family, carefully picking out Erin's Christmas Barbie. The trip to the toy store, the judicious examination of each sparkly dress before making the decision. The excitement on their faces as they slowly unwrap the package for Erin, holding it up to her half-closed eyes. "See? She's a ballerina. Like in Swan Lake! She's wearing little toe shoes."
One cold evening I arrived for my weekly visit, only to find that the mother had taken all three children out to have their pictures taken at Sears. Only the father was home. A tough, blue-collar guy, he hadn't said much the few times I had seen him. I knew that he was involved in the boys' sports, that he had worked at Safeway for years, and that he was good with his hands, having built a TV room addition onto the back of the house. We both apologized to one another for the miscommunication about the appointment. Then he invited me to have a seat in the shag-carpeted living room. Glass and china gleamed in the light from the Christmas tree that sat in the corner.
The sand-colored couch and the loveseat were set up in an L shape. We each sat, he on the smaller sofa, facing the sparkling tree. I could hear the TV in the background. "She wasn't always heavy, you know," he said suddenly. He walked across the room, picking up something from the shelf and handing it to me. He tapped a thin, blonde woman in the framed photo I was holding. The woman wore jeans and a white T-shirt. Her curly hair was pulled back into a ponytail, with puffy bangs brushing her forehead. She looked perky and fun. Someone who liked steamed crabs and beer, maybe, or going dancing with her girlfriends.
"It's been hard on us, her most of all. It's made her sad. Depressed, you know?" I murmured something and nodded, looking across the dim room. "She got real heavy," he continued. He sighed. "But you know, I still love her, as much as ever. She's still beautiful to me. It just makes me sad sometimes."
"Of course, of course," I said, uncertain of the polite response. My eyes roamed across the shelves to the other photos: a pretty blonde in a wedding dress, kissing her new husband's bristly moustache; two toddler boys holding Easter baskets; the family smiling in a formal portrait, the boys missing teeth, the mother holding a tiny, blanket-wrapped bundle in her arms.
"We heard about this home, once, a really great place, for kids like Erin. We decided it might be good for her. For us. We wouldn't worry so much." He looked down at his hands. "She has a real personality, you know. A strong will. We can tell when she's happy and when she's cranky. We know what she likes and doesn't like."
I laid the picture of the young blonde woman on the sofa beside me. My hands rested on my thighs.
Looking up, his eyes sought mine. "It's just that, when she was away, I couldn't stand it. I missed her. She's a part of our family. When she's not around I miss her."
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